His thoughts were interrupted when the door to his compartment opened unexpectedly, letting in the noise of the rushing train. Kulowski stood there, looking uncomfortable as usual in a suit that appeared at least one size too small.
‘Just to let you know we will be there in ten minutes, chief.’
‘I am quite aware of that,’ Lueger said, irritated at having been torn out of his thoughts.
‘You told me to remind you.’
‘And now you have.’ Lueger waved his cigar dismissively at the man.
After the door closed, Lueger leaned back against the linen-covered headrest, closed his eyes and said quietly out loud, ‘Buffalo.’
But at least Kulowski was loyal.
Sixteen
Sunday morning Werthen awoke to a nearly silent world. It was not just that Sundays were usually more quiet than other days, with less traffic and fewer pedestrians on the street. He knew this Sunday was special.
His robe on, he looked out the front windows of the sitting room and saw a swirling mass of snow coming from the skies. A childish glee filled him.
All morning long it snowed with an intensity that he had not known since his youth. The green ceramic oven in the sitting room hummed with heat and outside the snow fell silently. A white, mute presence. They did not even attempt their usual Sunday stroll around the Ringstrasse.
He determined to take his mind off the case for at least one day. Really, he had no choice. The Viennese were sticklers for Sunday-day-of-rest. There were no interviews he could conduct, no leads to follow on the hallowed Sunday.
So, he and Berthe sat reading in the sitting room while Frieda gurgled and lolled about on a large blanket between them on the leather sofa. Werthen held his little daughter through her morning nap, marveling, as millennia of doting parents have, at the absolute perfection of their progeny. Today he was focusing on her ears, miracles of precision and sweetness. The pinkness of the lobes, the almost translucent quality of the skin filled him with a sudden awe. Were he a religious man he would have put it down to God’s doing.
This thought spurred others: he would have to come to terms with his battling parents and father-in-law sometime. Herr Meisner should be here; should be enjoying his granddaughter. He felt guilt at this, but it was as much his father-in-law’s fault as theirs. He was a stubborn goat. At least he had gotten his parents to remain quiet about a possible baptism, yet he knew it was only a matter of time before they began clamoring again for a proper church ceremony. The old hypocrites, he thought, not without a certain degree of fondness.
Werthen managed to put these thoughts out of his mind and enjoy the morning and the unexpected snowfall. They were just about to sit down to their Sunday lunch of Backhendl, fried chicken served with parsley potatoes and a fresh kraut salad, when the ringer on their apartment door sounded. He and Berthe exchanged quick glances, for no one was expected today. Perhaps his parents, he thought, bored with nothing to do on a wintry day. It was Frau Blatschky’s day off, so he got up to answer the door.
Standing on the threshold was Detective Inspector Drechsler looking rather glum.
‘Detective,’ Werthen said, attempting to hide his surprise. ‘Please come in and warm yourself.’
Drechsler shook his head at the invitation. ‘Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Advokat. We have a problem.’
‘Please, come in. What is it?’
‘I don’t want to disturb you.’
‘You already have,’ Werthen said with a smile, but he was not feeling very jolly. Drechsler’s expression was worrying. ‘We can’t talk out here.’ He took the man by the arm and guided him in.
Berthe had come to the foyer by now, Frieda in arms, and smiled as the policeman came in.
‘You remember my wife,’ Werthen said.
Drechsler tipped his snow-dusted derby at her. ‘Good day, madam,’ he said. ‘Apologies for the intrusion.’
‘You must be frozen,’ she said. ‘Can I offer you anything? Tea?’
‘No, not now. Too kind of you. I just need a quick word with your husband.’
Berthe nodded at this implicit request for privacy, and returned to the dining room.
‘What is it, Drechsler? You look done in.’
‘I wouldn’t bother you except that I know you have a certain relationship with Herr Wittgenstein.’
‘Well, yes. He was, as you know, a client. But what has Herr Wittgenstein got to do with anything?’
Drechsler pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket and retrieved a small card kept in the envelope. It looked to be something official, for he caught a glimpse of the Austrian eagle stamp. It was also smudged with what appeared to be dried blood. Drechsler was careful to handle the card so as not to get his fingers on the stains.
‘This was found earlier today on the body of a. . a person who fell to his death under the Stadtbahn at the Karlsplatz station. Not a large person.’
‘You mean a child?’ Werthen began to feel his heart race.
‘Yes,’ Drechsler said, his head bowed. ‘A child. He was killed immediately and his head. .’ He let out a long sigh. ‘Well, he could not be identified. They think he must have slipped. All this snow, you know, and the platforms were wet from people’s shoes. Irony is, the trains just started running again before he fell. They had to clear the tracks and there was quite a crowd at the station waiting. No one saw it happen, just that he suddenly fell as the train was pulling into Karlsplatz.’
‘And this card was on the body?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it have a name?’ But Werthen knew already. Knew with a sickening feeling in his heart.
‘It is a yearly pass to the Imperial Natural History Museum. All that could be found on the body. It was in the boy’s overcoat.’
‘Young Ludwig Wittgenstein?’
A curt nod of the head from Drechsler.
‘You’re sure?’ Werthen asked.
‘Like I say, physical identification is impossible. But with this card and the proximity to the Wittgenstein palais. . I thought perhaps it would be better coming from someone who at least knows him. I don’t mean to avoid responsibility.’
‘You were quite right to come, Detective Inspector. Just let me tell my wife. I’ll be with you presently.’
Drechsler had secured a Fiaker from the Police Praesidium; it was still waiting in the street at Werthen’s apartment.
They spoke little on the way to the Palais Wittgenstein, but at one point Drechsler did grow expansive.
‘I wanted to thank you and Doktor Gross. That surgeon fellow, Praetor, we had a consultation with him and he says he can make the wife fit as a French horn in no time. She goes in for surgery the end of the week.’
‘Splendid news, Drechsler. I am happy for you.’
The policeman seemed to want to add something, but thought better of it, as if this was hardly the time to express feelings about his good luck.
The Fiaker pulled up to the Wittgenstein mansion finally and Werthen still did not know what he was going to say to Karl Wittgenstein.
Drechsler accompanied him, but it was clearly on Werthen to break the news to the industrialist. He had thought of approaching the daughter, Fraulein Mining, first, but then remembered how Wittgenstein had chastised him before for not summoning him to the morgue. No. He would go straight to the father.